Yesterday I went through all of the private messages I’d shared with Frank Gutch Jr, since I’d first encountered him. It was in 2013, just after I’d begun writing this weekly column, and right from that first message, it was as though we were separated at birth.
It plays like a loop in my head, the first time I visited Music Millennium. I remember the drive to Portland from Eugene, parking down the hill on East Burnside, the walk up the street and even opening the door. Had I filmed it, it could not be any more clear. I had been in many record stores before— in fact, the guys with me were all denizens of Eugene’s House of Records— but this was different. This was the famed Millennium, the seller of imports, the mecca of what record stores should be as far as many of us were concerned. Tower Records may have had stores open at the time (it was the summer of ’72, though I have been saying ’71 for years and have only recently discovered my mistake) but the Pac Northwest didn’t know it. Why should we have cared? We had the Millennium!
Someone once told me I was eccentric. I laughed out loud because I am the least eccentric of any people I know. I am, in fact, so normal and middle-of-the-road that I occasionally label myself boring. I am. Boring, that is. I am a puddle of mediocrity in a pool of ordinary. The jack of all trades and master of none. Neither the dimmest bulb nor the brightest. Plain yogurt. A one dollar bill. I am as exciting as baseball in the off-season and Christmas in July. I have been the second choice of too many girls to recount (Gosh, Frank, if it wasn’t for— insert name here— it would be you) and the tenth choice on a team of nine. I write because I have no other talent. I am the sponge which lives vicariously. Even the kids who love me abandon me when they are old enough to realize…
I think Phoebe Bridgers was twelve when I first heard of her. I had just discovered Kim Grant, then cranking up Grand Ole Echo shows in L.A., and those shows quickly became legendary to me. She (and a colleague, whose name escapes me at this moment) was booking everything below the radar in L.A. and many of those became inspiration for columns or reviews— Old Californio, I See Hawks in L.A., Pi Jacobs, Little Lonely, and so many more. Occasionally she would mention Phoebe in her newsletters— mere mention of a young girl threatening to become a serious musician.
Goldband Studios is gone. Here I have been spending the past few years singing the praises of Research Turtles— I call them the boys from Lake Charles— without realizing that the city/town/parish also was home to Eddie Shuler and Goldband. Dumb me. I have known of Goldband since I was in college, having found them through That Dorm Guy who was somehow plugged into anything and everything musical. I look back now at him and wonder how he was able to find so much music in a land with pretty much nothing but Billboard Magazine to guide him, but he did.
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Meet Dan Phelps, if you have not already done so. I first ran across him over a decade ago when he was working with both Bill Pillmore and his daughter Jess Pillmore on their respective albums, Look In Look Out and Reveal. Bill was an original member of Cowboy and I had heard through Scott Boyer, another original member of that venerable band, that he was recording for the first time, to my knowledge, since Cowboy‘s excellent 1971 release, 5’ll Getcha Ten. When I contacted him, he was in full recording mode, working with Phelps, whom he had chosen to produce. To my amazement, Phelps did more than just produce. He was a sideman and a damn good one, a creator of good licks and solid musical ideas. It was a first look at a musician I would follow from that point on.
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The stars have finally aligned, sports fans! You can delete my queries about Carrie Biell because I have found her after a ten year search. I should say that my buddy at KEXP radio, Tom Smith, found her. Well, maybe a friend of Tom’s. Or a friend of Tom’s friend. Ach! It doesn’t matter. The important thing that she is found. The other important thing is that she is writing again and has already jumped back into the deep end of the musical pool.
My yardstick for music is a simple one. If everyone likes it, it can’t be worth a shit. Think Hitler as a rock star. He, too, had a following, though few would own up to being part of it after the finale. What is it that makes everyone so enamored with this musician as opposed to this other musician who is playing practically the same thing? Hell if I know. How does one become a hit overnight? Hell if I know. Why are people attracted to certain artists, en masse? You guessed it. Hell if I know. But I can goddamn guarantee you that while you are talking about the Lady Gaga halftime show, and my guess is that most of you talking about music are, you’re missing a few thousand musicians worth hearing, some of them playing music way outside the formulaic box the Gaga has built for herself. Taylor Swift? I love some of her songs but there are songs as good as that out there if you take the time to listen.
Nothing says Christmas like a curmudgeon and nobody is more of one than Jaimie Vernon which makes me wish I knew some of the stories behind his long career in music and, also, in life. Regaling you with tales of chicken wire and whoopee cushions would make this a lot easier to write— nothing like fart jokes to liven up your reading— but it is Christmas season and I must put aside the slings and arrows, as humorous as they might be.
This morning was cold and wet with a chill that went to the bone, the clouds threatening, the rain off and on but somehow consistent. I knew it would be. Yesterday, my friend John Hicks had posted a message that Buck Ormsby had died. No way, I thought, because I had had contact only a few days previous— just a note, but contact. When I approached Hicks, he said that he had found out from Ormsby’s son’s page. He sent me the link and there it was. We are sorry to report… and the words became a blur. While it hardly seemed possible, Buck was gone. Is gone, for none of us will hear from him again and that is truly a sad thing.
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Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 